Page 25 of Mafia Obsession

My pulse begins to hammer in my ears, but the elevator stops and the door opens.

The gray-haired woman steps out first.

The luxury of the space does not sneak up on me. It’s broadcast unapologetically from the first step I take onto floors made of pale stone veined with gold. The walls are paneled in rich wood, their surfaces gleaming in warm lighting from above.

More chandeliers. Ornate and decorative. Not long fluorescent tubes that buzz annoyingly and catch flies.

The woman guides me down a corridor still without speaking. No asking if I want coffee or tea. And I note that I don’t smell anything brewing in a breakroom.

The corridor opens up to glass-walled conference rooms with plush interiors. I peer to get a sense of where the hell I am. But there are no logos and no visible corporate branding. It’s just opulence.

Turning the corner, the space opens up to a single desk sitting in front of an office enclosed in glass.

No. Nathan had anoffice. A rectangular room with a cheap wooden desk behind a dirty window with a toilet and a wall sink that he bragged was an executive washroom.

This…this is an executive suite.

The woman opens the glass door and gestures for me to go inside. “Wait in here.”

“Thank you,” I say, immediately noticing an elegant cherrywood desk that dominates the space. It’s so clean and sparse that it appears ceremonial.

This isn’t a desk for grinding out paperwork. The block of polished wood is a place to rest a hand heavy with an expensive wristwatch while waiting for praise or delivering punishment.

Behind the desk is a built-in bookcase and a credenza. That holds some paperwork a CEO needs to have handy at a moment’s notice.

I step up to one of the many rectangular windows lining the far wall. The view steals the breath from my lungs. Manhattan strategically unfolds below like whoever works out of this office owns the city and can rearrange streets with a flick of the wrist.

We are so high up that the city feels miniature. I remember how it looked when David and I arrived on a plane three years ago. From high up, New York City is magical. Down below, you feel like one of its rats.

I notice the architectural moldings, the walls with their gilded framed paintings, décor that gives off strong Old-World vibes. Not just wealth. Power. Gifted by the gods.

Gods…

I turn, embarrassed by my gawking, ready to demand that the woman tell me who exactly I’m meeting, but she’s gone.

Andheis standing there, watching me.

Ares…

I startle and raise a hand to my heart.

“It’s you,” I say, my voice more breathless than I intended.

“It is. Welcome to Zervas & Company,” he says, his thick black hair styled to complement his handsome face.

“Zervas & Company? Zervas…is Greek.”

“That’s correct.” He smiles and slips tattooed hands into the pockets of a beautifully tailored charcoal gray suit.

And if the association I made to the Italian don with similar tattoos who beat the hell out of Nathan last week was correct… Greekmafia.

Crap!

“This isyourcompany?”

“Yes.”

“But why…” I ask, until my mind assembles a more intelligent question. “This isn’t a coincidence, is it?”